My world is disintegrating, and I am exploding to fill the void.

It never matters whether it's fission or fusion: they both destroy with violent thoroughness.

If this doesn't stop soon, I'm not sure I'll survive. And if I do, I won't be intact; I'll be in thousands of pieces and impossible to put together again. Or I'll have liquified, or gassified. Either way, it will not be pretty. That's putting it mildly.

I need something to happen to turn this all around. Need.

at home...

I've been home for nearly a week now.

I have a job. I'm basically over my little cold. I have my health, I have my family, I have food and shelter and beautiful things to look at...

...so why do I feel so empty?


Maybe I am empty. My soul is beginning to ring a bit hollow when struck. I don't like this, not one bit. So what can I do to return to a fully solid state?

Star Wars - Murphy's Law. Just for fun...

What do Star Wars teach us? Nothing good.

1. Never Stop Moving. (may the force be with you)
2. Short is Bad. (stormtrooper comment)
3. Be Stupid and Emotional. (Don't think. Feel)
4. Nighttime is Good. (Give in to the dark side)
5. You Must Obey Me. (I am your father)
6. Don't Even Try. (Do or do not. there is no try)
7. You Have No Control. At All. (it's your destiny)
8. It's All Going to Go Wrong. (I've got a bad feeling about this)

Summation: Don't stop moving, but don't ever do anything. Be stupid and emotional and avoid the sun. Do whatever you can to grow tall, and, more than anything, don't try to change anything. Cause you can't. It's hopeless.

And this is an American phenomenon?

Disclaimer: I enjoy Star Wars. Honestly. Well, at least, I enjoy the original trilogy. But not the best philosophy for life...

done and gone.

next stop: breathe, reboot, and live.

fevering

coughing

sneezing & dripping

and... linear algebra exam, packing, cleaning tomorrow

no brain. need brain. water. sleep. breathe. survive. please.

this just wrote itself...

The lover is a creator:
he gathers words, looks, thoughs,
and pulls them through his heart
into deeds.
His love is like glass:
translucently strong, hot and liquid,
or cool and clearly solid
when molded into rainbowed beams.
His look is light:
it illuminates, reveals, shines like fire,
scatters darkness to fill the void with brightness,
making glowing what once was dimly hid.
For love is a wonder:
redeeming pleasure, deep-lit smiles,
renewing forgiven faults, and
casting off and burning old ways.
It once sees all,
then, seeing, sends to frozen universe' end
the dross,
keeping in glazen brazen jeweled frames
the picture of the good,
of delightful beauty.
Love makes pleasure and joy of all.

random things from my essay.

the essay was serious; these interjections were not. i was in a strange mood...

when the muse strikes, she strikes hard. I think I'd have a perpetual migraine if she hit me every day. ... Being hit in the head certainly does explain a great many mental aberrations. Or at least it's a good excuse...

The computer gnomes would prefer that everybody communicated in C++ or 1337. I like to think that I foiled their plans.

Talking about getting feedback on a work of art, such as a poem:
you produce something that's a piece of you. You make it, mold it, create it, and it contains you, the essence of who you are. And people take it, finger it, sniff it, lick it perhaps, then pull out a shining knife, sharpen the knife, and proceed to dissect it. Then they examine each part closely, perhaps pointing out a few pretty places. This whole time you are on edge, feeling every prick of the knife, catching every whiff of uncertainty. Finally, they set it down, look at you, shake their heads, and swipe it into the trash. Then, just for good measure, they make you watch the trash compactor at work. How in the name of anything is that supposed to make you feel good? Huh? Got an answer, little gnomes? No? That's cause there isn't one. See, if the gnomes won't shut up when you tell them to, just scare them silly. It's your best bet. Or at least it's mine. Boo! Ha! Scared them again. And now, in the silence, I shall continue...

Feedback is a he. Sass is feminine. So's manipulation, but that's not the point.

Yes, neuron gnomes, I'm talkin' to YOU!

If my mind were a broken record instead of a computer, it would be much easier to remember things. But it would be boring, too, I suppose, so that's out.

Take that, violent muse!

and that is all for now. sometimes i even amuse myself...

from my head... from the heavens?

another poem:

I saw a storm a'dancing,
and light and sound flew from its hands.
Its clouded skirts swirled and roiled,
and bolts of fire-white hair shot out and down,
while its feet roared and rumbled on the ground.
Rain and hail, like scattered cold petals,
fluttered, dropped, down from its bouquet
of water and praise.
For praising it was - a violent Hallelujah!
just as beautiful, loud and true
as any ever marched from throated puny people.
All heaven declares! and dances with joyful abandon.
And as the thunder caught their ears, the trees
flung out their arms, lifting them to join the skies' praise.
Waves lept, rocks skipped, grasses bowed their heads.
All creation, reminded, is subdued and worships,
by their graceful existence and
by their exuberance under the storm-cloud
conductor.